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MAIN 


IRLF 


'A 


What  is  your  Legion? 

Grace  Fallow  Norton 


HOUGHTGN 

Boston  and  New  York 


WHAT  IS  YOUR  LEGION? 


WHAT  IS  YOUR  LEGION? 


BY 
GRACE   FALLOW  NORTON 


BOSTON   AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

re$j  Cambridge 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,   1916,   BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CONTENTS 

O  SAY,  WHAT   IS  YOUR   LEGION  ? 

PLEADING    NOT    FOR    WAR ONLY  THAT   WE    BE 

HEARD  3 

O  COME  TO  THE   DOOR  OF  YOUR   HEART  5 

THE   REASON  8 

WHEN  LAFAYETTE   CAME  IO 

MESSENGERS  I  I 

A   MESSAGE,  ONE   ONLY  13 

AMERICA 1823  14 

OUR   LIBERTY  I  6 

PRICE  AND  PRIZE  I  8 

THE   BLUNDERS  AND  THE   FAULTS  19 

GERMANY 1848  21 

BLOOD  AND   IRON  24 

FRANCE  AND   ENGLAND  26 

VAST  RUSSIA  27 

WOUNDED  28 

OLD  KINGS  30 

OF  SHIPS  AND  THE  SEA  3! 

THE  WORD  WE   REFUSE  32 

THE  LITTLE  LANDS  36 

THIS  BOOK  38 


O  SAY,  WHAT  IS  YOUR  LEGION? 

MY  people,  O  my  people,  dwelling  far  and  free ! 
Distance  is  your  fortress,  distance  and  the  sea  ! 

The  sea  spreads  its  waters  —  your  thought  fares  forth 

and  drowns, 
And  your  memory  of  the  old  world  and  its  burning 

towns. 

Distance  spreads  its  safety  —  your  fear  flares  out  and 

fades, 
And  you  turn  to  your  towns,  your  trains,  and  your 

trades. 

My  people, *O  my  people,  crying  I  come  to  you! 
Nameless,  a  sign,  a  signal,  —  O  listen!  —  and  a  clue! 

For  I  come  with  songs,  with  prayers!   With  silence 

in  my  voice! 
The  hosts  of  fate  are  battling!  The  world  makes  its 

choice ! 

Drown  not,  drown  not  now,  your  souls  in  the  safe  sea  ! 
Drown  not  your  mighty  love  nor  your  old  victory ! 
Once  we  went  singing,  singing,  singing  "Liberty!" 


O  SAY,  WHAT  IS  YOUR  LEGION? 

Once   we   were   godlike,    chosen !   My    people,  sing 

again ! 
The   old-world   towns  are   burning.  Their   women 

stand.  Their  men 


Stand  and  choose  their  legion,  they  rise  and  choose 

their  life! 
They  march  to  terrible  music,  the  music  of  the  fife! 

My  people,  O  my  people,  whose  towns  the  sea  has 

spared, 
O  say,  what  is  your  legion?  How  has  your  legion 

fared  ? 

And  the  music  of  your  marching,  —  is  your  music 

surging  shrill 
Where  the  world  rocks  and  shivers,  uttering  its  will  ? 

My  land,  eyrie  of  eagles  whose  wings  beat  by  the 

sea ! 
When  shall  we  cry  to  Belgium,  "  Our  hearts  are  with 

you  — free!"? 


PLEADING  NOT  FOR  WAR  — ONLY  THAT 
WE  BE  HEARD 

GIVE  me  words  as  clear  as  water,  clear  as  light, 
That  I  may  plead  the  better  for  a  Word  ! 
Pleading  not  for  war  —  only  that  we  be  heard. 
O  I  would  make  you  miserable  and  break  your  sleep 
at  night ! 

Not  so   far   from    Belgium   but  we   may   hear   her 

cry, 

Or  Germany  but  we  must  know  her  voice ! 
So  if  we  do  not  answer  it  is  because  we  lie, 
Telling  our  false  hearts  falsely  that  we  —  the  Free ! 

—  can  make  no  choice ! 

When  shall  we  melt  and  glow  ?  America !   Soul  of 

light ! 

How  can  we  live,  so  dumb,  so  hard,  so  shallow  ? 
When  shall  a  land  speak  out  as  a  man  would  speak 

for  right, 
Who  says:  "This  is  my  faith!   Let  lightning  fall  and 

the  heavens  follow ! "  ? 

[3] 


PLEADING  NOT  FOR  WAR 

O  not  so  far  from  France  but  cry  and  counter-cry 
Float  through  our  windows !  Yet  we  lift  no  voice ! 
But  if  we  do  not  speak  it  is  because  we  die  — 
Surely  the  soul  of  man  is  dead  when  it  can  make  no 
choice ! 


[4] 


O  COME  TO  THE  DOOR  OF  YOUR 
HEART 

O  COME  to  the  door  of  your  heart! 
Your  servants  would  send  me  away; 
They  say  you  are  sitting  apart, 
Counting  your  gold  all  the  day. 
They  say  your  tills  overflow, 
That  your  bright  gold  rings  and  chimes,  — 
That  its  chiming  covers  so 
The  din  of  these  warring  times ! 

O  come  to  the  door  of  your  heart! 
Your  servants  would  send  me  away ; 
They  say  you  are  sitting  apart 
In  the  pride  of  your  peace  all  the  day. 
They  say  you  are  praising  your  peace 
And  that  something  within  you  has  died, 
For  your  soul  is  seeking  its  ease 
And  your  body  is  satisfied. 

O  come  to  the  door  of  your  heart! 
Your  servants  would  send  me  away ; 

[5] 


O  COME  TO  THE  DOOR  OF  YOUR  HEART 

They  say  you  are  sitting  apart, 

Shaken  with  fear  all  the  day. 

Your  fear  is  a  terrible  fear  — 

The  fear  of  the  face  of  the  brute  ! 

(Well  it  might  show  itself  here 

Where  the  pride  of  your  peace  has  root !) 

0  come  to  the  door  of  your  heart ! 

1  will  knock  there  day  by  day, 
For  I  know  that  you  suffer  apart, 
Silent  and  sealed  away. 

I  know  you  are  stifled  and  sick 
And  you  say  you  will  not  be  well 
While  on  far  plains  falling  thick, 
Rain  bitter  bullet  and  shell. 

O  come  to  the  door  of  your  heart ! 
For  I  know  when  you  come  you  will  say, 
"I  have  seen  here  —  sitting  apart  — 
The  truth  at  last  and  the  way  ! 
The  pride  of  my  peace  has  failed, 
And  my  dread  of  the  brute  has  died, 
Yea,  fear  itself  has  quailed  — 
For  my  soul  is  unsatisfied  ! 

"I  stand  in  the  door  of  my  heart  — 
True  Peace  has  been  long  away ! 
[6] 


O  COME  TO  THE  DOOR  OP  YOUR  HEART 

I  am  wounded,  sitting  apart, 

So  far  from  the  worth  of  the  day. 

I  will  speak  out  at  last  and  be  whole ! 

My  silence  was  all  a  lie  ! 

For  freedom  I'll  pour  out  my  soul  — 

My  body  may  live  or  die  !  " 


[7] 


THE    REASON 

O  I  WILL  tell  you  why  in  due  season ! 
France  !  France  !  France  is  the  reason  ! 


For  there  the  people,  beating  like  surf  against  the 
prison  wall, 

Razed  the  Bastille,  and  hearing  the  prison  fall, 

Surged  to  the  palace-gates,  broke  through,  pulled 
down 

The  throne  and  took  the  crown 

And  crowned  themselves  and  made  a  great  democ 
racy  ! 

Liberty  ! 

Equality ! 

Fraternity  !  " 

King  Gold  disturbs  that  equal  brotherhood? 
They  struggled  on  through  tears  and  blood ! 
They  fell,  they  rose,  they  reach  unto  their  star  ! 
Republican,  they  hold  the  key 
Of  their  own  destiny  ! 

And  now,  invaded,  anguished,  worn  by  war, 
France  shows  the  world  what  kings  her  kingless 
brothers  are ! 

C  8] 


THE  REASON 

O  Washington,  who  came  to  you,  who  gave  to 
you  his  hand  ? 

Lafayette  !  But  saved  at  last,  a  proud  and  power 
ful  land, 

We  bring  no  banner,  nor  send  the  old  cry  ringing 
across  the  sea  — 

Liberty ! 

Equality ! 

Fraternity ! " 

Does  gold  disturb  our  true  democracy  ? 

Daily  I  ask  myself,  "  What  then  is  treason  ? " 
France  I  France!  France  is  the  reason  ! 


[9] 


WHEN  LAFAYETTE  CAME 

WHEN  Lafayette  came, 
There  was  a  crown  in  France. 
But  he  was  afire  with  the  flame 
That  burned  up  the  throne  of  France ! 

When  Lafayette  fought, 

He  gave  us  part  of  France. 

His  part  was  the  fearless  thought, 

The  great  hope  in  the  heart  of  France 


[10] 


MESSENGERS 

IN  Washington,  high,  pillared,  proud, 

With  its  great  gray  dome 
Like  a  swimming  summer  cloud, 

Stands  our  country's  home. 

And  there  we  send  our  messengers 

And  there  they  rise  and  say, 
"  Red  fire  sweeps  the  mountain-firs 
And  burns  them  all  away; 

"  And  the  mountain-springs  are  drying 

And  the  valley-wheat  will  waste, 
And  your  messenger  comes  crying 
'  Protect  the  springs  !   Make  haste  ! ' 

Daily  each  messenger  returns 

But  none  has  said  to-day, 
"  Red  fire  across  America  burns 
And  eats  her  life  away, 

"  And  her  soul's  springs  are  drying 
Of  a  strange,  silent  drought, 


MESSENGERS 

And  your  messenger  comes  crying 
That  the  springs  may  gush  out/' 

O  many  many  messengers 

Have  come,  but  none  to  say, 
"  The  soul  of  America,  stifling,  stirs  ! 
Quench  the  strange  fire  to-day, 

"  Or  light  great  fires  will  meet  that  fire  — 

Send  clear  and  cleansing  flame 
High  into  the  heavy  air, 

And  free  each  healing  stream !  " 

O  many  messengers  have  come 
Nor  yet  are  the  springs  released ; 

The  drought  that  kills  us  here  at  home 
Not  yet  has  that  drought  ceased. 


[1*3 


A  MESSAGE,  ONE  ONLY 

I  AM  no  messenger,  chosen,  signed ; 

I  must  choose  myself  with  my  lone  mind. 

I  stand  on  the  street-corner,  lonely. 

But  I  have  a  message,  one  only, 

And  I  have  one  question,  only  one, 

Weighing  in  my  heart  like  stone. 

My  message  runs  :   We  stand  for  nought 
While  the  great  battle  of  liberty  is  fought, 
While  men  and  boys,  beside  a  crimson  sea, 
Die  for  a  dream  of  freedom  and  democracy. 
Or  for  an  armed  and  iron  monarchy  ! 

My  question  weighs  within  my  heart  like  stone 
Why  has  no  'word  been  spoken,  not  one,  not  one  ? 
Why  has  none  risen  like  Webster  in  Washington  ? 


AMERICA  —  1823 

IN  Eighteen-Twenty-Three  Greece  bled, 
And  one  day  Webster  stood  in  our  Senate  and  said : 
"  A  little  land,  a  beloved  land,  struggles  to  free 
Her  fields  from  Turkish  tyranny. 
Her  people  send  the  world  a  prayer, 
Dark  with  their  hearts'  despair. 
I  come  to  plead  that  the  nation  speak ! 
Shall  we  not  answer  when  a  land  still  weak 
Seeks  strength  in  freedom?  Shall  Greece  fade  for 
ever, 
And  we,  her  eternal  debtor,  her  learner,  freedom's 

lover, 

Be  dumb,  while  Europe's  ancient  thrones  cry  out 
They  are  threatened  by  the  rags  and  rout 
Of  those  who,  dreaming,  dream  democracy  ? 
So  young  in  freedom  yet,  we  too  are  weak, 
But  I  say  we  owe  it  to  our  souls  to  speak  ! 
'  Words  were  a  danger  ?  Silence  were  best  ? ' 
I  say  speech  suits  our  higher  interest, 
For  we  are  pledged  to  life  and  liberty  ! 
But  if  we  dream  kings  on  their  carven  thrones 
Have  rights  divine  to  crush  men  with  their  crowns, 

C  H] 


AMERICA— 1 823 

And  if  we  deem  plain  men  unfit 

To  speak  in  Europe's  courts,  then  —  and  then  only  — 

we  should  sit 
Regardless.  True,  we  are 
Not  armed,  we  have  no  wish  for  war. 
But  we  have  words !   O  wonder  of  a  word 
And  power  !   By  all  the  future  to  be  heard 
And  by  a  world,  torn,  burdened,  and  at  strife  — 
If  we  speak  truth  and  strength,  if  we  speak  life !  " 

O  young  we  were  in  freedom  then  and  weak, 
But  the  world,  the  future,  heard  us  speak ! 
The  words  of  Webster  rang  through  Europe's  strife, 
For  he  spoke  truth  and  strength,  for  he  spoke  life ! 


OUR  LIBERTY 

THINK  of  man  still  unborn, 

Part  of  a  herd,  held  to  the  herd, 

Swayed  by  the  herd,  his  Self  unstirred. 

Then  his  Self  sees  faint  morn  ! 

Clansman,  comrade  now,  by  the  choice  of  his  heart, 

No  longer  now  an  inarticulate  part, 

He  bends  not  to  his  herd,  he  bows  not  to  his  clan, 

He  has  been  born  at  last,  he  stands  alone,  a  man ! 

He  stands,  he  learns,  he  lives!   He  strives  with  other 

men ! 

He  bows  not  to  the  state  —  he  is  its  citizen. 
He  bows   not   to   the   state,  he   crawls   not  to  the 

king, 
His    friendship    and    his    fellowship    are    a    kingly 

thing. 

He  gropes,  he  struggles  on,  seeking  to  wrest  a  soul 
From  the  blind  great  Whole, 
From  its  dark  ancient  terrible  control. 

America,  America,  what  is  our  liberty  ? 
A  fellowship  of  men,  brotherly  but  free ! 

[  16] 


OUR  LIBERTY 

Who  know  this  secret  of  the  soul  —  that  it  must  give 
From  its  lone  light  and  vision  if  it  would  grow  and 

live. 

A  friendship,  a  fellowship,  of  strong  men  and  free  ! 
Columbia,  America,  this  is  our  liberty  ! 


PRICE  AND  PRIZE 

OUR  freedom  was  not  conquered  once  for  aye ; 

Our  freedom  must  be  moulded  every  day ! 

O  not  an  ancient  war  to  wrest  us  from  a  king, 

But  a  war  to-day,  to-morrow  —  immortal,  elusive, 

a-wing ! 

A  war  with  the  world's  fierce  powers  — 
Shall  our  souls  win  ? 
A  war  with  the  soul's  strange  fires  — 
War!  War!   Without,  within! 
A  dream,  ay,  and  a  danger !  The  risk  that  must  be 

made 

Is  ruin  !   And  a  great  price  shall  be  paid  — 
For  the  price  is  life,  life  ever,  over  and  over  and 

over ! 
But  life  is  the  prize  and  life's  love,  and  the  joy  and 

strength  of  the  lover  ! 


THE  BLUNDERS  AND  THE   FAULTS 

O  THE  blunders  of  old  England 

And  the  faults,  the  faults  of  France ! 

They  are  as  faulty  as  we ! 

But  there's  hope  for  us,  there's  a  chance, 

With  our  kind  of  liberty  — 

The  kind  they  have  in  England, 

The  kind  they  have  in  France ! 

We  speak  out  stubbornly, 

Without  regard  for  majesty  — 

Just  as  they  do  in  England, 

Just  as  they  do  in  France ! 

O  hardy  human  liberty  — 

You  were  born  in  England, 

And  you  grew  up  in  France ! 

O  the  faults,  the  faults  of  liberty 
And  the  hope  and  all  the  high  glory ! 
They  have  fought  for  it  in  Russia, 
In  the  red  streets  of  Russia, 
They  have  yearned  for  it  in  Russia, 
(My  people,  even  as  we!) 

[  19] 


THE  BLUNDERS  AND  THE  FAULTS 

But  they  have  not  fought  in  Prussia, 
Not  for  years  in  Prussia, 
They  do  not  dream  in  Prussia  — 
Not  yet  —  of  liberty  ! 


[20] 


GERMANY— 1848 

MOURN  !   Mourn  for  the  dead  year  Forty-Eight ! 
Muffle   the   drums  !     Toll   bells  !     March   not,   but 

mourn  ! 

Pour  ashes  on  bent  heads  ! 
Toll !  Wail !   Cry  out  for  the  great 
And  tragic  year  that  died  ere  it  was  born  ! 
That  died  and  brought  no  life, 
But  only  desolate  hearths  and  beds, 
Empty  places, 
Set  white  faces, 
Graves  and  fearful  strife ! 

Mourn,  mourn  for  your  dead  year,  great  Germany, 

Great  Germany ! 

For  your  dark  Forty-Eight ! 

Mourn  for  that  dear  lost  year,  so  great, 

So  brief,  so  black,  so  bright  — 

When  your  soul  yearned  for  liberty, 

When  your  sons  sought  the  word  that  makes  men 

free 

And  met  and  spoke  their  faith  together, 
Man  by  man,  brother  by  brother, 


! 


GERMANY—  1848 

And  dared  hard  deeds,  stood  forth  —  and  failed  !  — 

Dying,  scattered,  as  the  bullets  hailed ! 

Mourn !  Weep  and  mourn !  Not  for  that  fatal  stand — 

The  last  within  your  land  — 

But  for  the  faith  that  died  !   No  flaming  foreheads 

more  arose  — 
The  gates  of  iron  close 
Upon  the  hope  of  Germany  ! 

Mourn,  then  !  Toll  bells,  cry  out  and  weep, 

Because  your  people  fell  asleep 

Within  a  ring  of  magic  fire  .   .  . 

They  dreamed  behind  dream-flames 

And  built  their  world  of  dreams. 

O  wail  and  rend  your  garments  and  call ! 

The  wall  of  fire  is  an  iron  wall 

Raised  by  Bismarck's  iron  command ! 

Iron  around  a  land ! 

And  still,  like  children  your  people  sleep. 

In  dreams  they  arm,  in  dreams  they  weep, 

Stirred  by  the  old  desire, 

Murmuring  "  Liberty  !  " 

Iron-armed,  iron-burdened,  dreaming,  they  rise  and 

stagger  —  see  — 
Then  they  strike  outwards  desperately. 


GERMANY— 1848 

O  mourn !   Cry  out !  Weep  for  the  tragic,  great, 

Dead,  hapless,  hopeless  Forty-Eight ! 

Mourn  not  because  your  faith  failed  then ! 

Mourn  only  that  it  never  rose  again ! 

O  mourn  like  eagles  for  the  clipping  of  wings ! 

Mourn  like  lovers  for  the  death  of  the  dearest  things 


[23] 


BLOOD  AND  IRON 

AN  iron  land  with  an  iron  god 

And  no  faith  in  man  save  under  an  iron  rod 

An  iron  land  where  iron  rules, 

Welded  into  weapons  and  into  mighty  tools. 

An  iron  land  with  an  iron  will 

And  iron  wisdom.   Powerful,  ordered,  still, 

Iron-minded,  iron-handed, 

As  iron  Bismarck  commanded, 

Printing  his  strength  upon  the  state 

Whose  soul  had  faltered  after  Forty-Eight. 

"With  blood  and  iron!  "  stern  Bismarck  said, 

"Thus  the  minds  of  states  are  made  !  " 

("  Liberty ! "  the  patriots  cried. 

For  this  their  blood,  for  this  they  died!) 

"  God-rights  for  kings !  "  great  Bismarck  said, 

And  so  the  iron  God  was  made  — 

Welded,  weaponed,  a  monstrous  creature, 

Iron  of  mind  and  iron  of  feature. 

Iron  and  blood!   Iron  and  blood! 

Blood  is  its  drink  !   Bones  are  its  food! 


BLOOD  AND  IRON 

With  iron  rule  and  iron  order 

It  stalked  across  the  Belgian  border ! 

It  spoke  there  with  its  iron  tongue 

And  the  knell  of  the  joy  of  the  world  was  rung! 

Over  the  world  every  bell  tolls; 

Iron  has  entered  into  men's  souls! 


[25] 


FRANCE  AND  ENGLAND 

THEY  come  with  wounds  and  scars 

From  wrongs  and  wrongful  wars, 

Their  hands  not  yet  quite  clean, 

Their  houses  not  yet  ordered,  white — 

The  houses  that  they  build. 

And  they  come  self-confessed, 

Uncovered,  though  their  sins  be  seen, 

Knowing  it  is  themselves  they  fight 

Always,  on  every  battlefield. 

They  come  with  scars.   But  O  they  come 

From  chambers  of  free  speech,  the  home 

Of  liberty  !  And  self-scanned,  self-confessed  ! 

One  is  republican.   The  throne  of  the  other 

Grows  as  light  as  a  little  feather. 

Her  empire  melts  its  bands 

And  binds  itself  by  the  warm  clasp  of  hands. 

They  come  with  scars.   But  deeper  than 
Their  wounds  are  burned  their  words  of  faith 
Magna  Charta  is  bread  of  one  and  breath, 
And  one  remembers  still  the  Rights  of  Man  ! 

[a6] 


VAST  RUSSIA 

SHE  comes  with  wounds  and  scars 

From  wrongs  and  wrongful  wars, 

And  burdened  by  her  dire  autocracy ! 

But  her  peasant  soul  so  passionate,  so  brotherly, 

And  her  young  noble  students  crying  "  Liberty ! " — 

Crying  in  prisons  dark  and  vile, 

Crying  on  the  cold  plains  of  their  exile, 

Crying  in  the  mouth  of  death, 

Dying  for  their  faith! 

Faithful   they   come,  knowing   no    monarch  stands 

alone, 

Knowing  that  throne  must  prop  and  lean  on  throne, 
Well  knowing  that  the  scepter  of  the  Czar 
Was  weighted — weighted  with  an  iron  bar  ! 


WOUNDED 

GREAT  beauty  falls  upon  our  world  to-day, 
White  beauty  of  the  snow,  cloaking  the  meadow, 
The  dark  mountain,  every  branch  and  spray, 
In  peaceful  radiance  without  stain  or  shadow. 

And  yet  because  of  distant  wounds,  we  see 
Red  stains  —  a  blot  —  another  crimson  blot!  — 
Upon  that  breathless  perfect  purity, 
For  we  are  wounded  though  we  know  it  not. 

Our  souls  are  bleeding  unto  death  ! 
They  falter  !  They  are  faint  for  breath  ! 
They  got  their  wounds  in  valleys  far  away  .  .  . 
They  bleed  upon  the  snow  to-day 
Because  our  brothers  lie  upon  the  ground, 
Waiting  with  wounds  unbound  — 
The  brothers  of  our  souls  whom  we  have  never 
owned  .  .  . 

The  brothers  of  our  souls  !  Who  are  they  ?  When 
The  cry  is  "  Men  or  Kings  ? "  our  brothers  answer 
"  Men  !  " 

[28  ] 


WOUNDED 

The  wounds  of  him  who  dares  the  battle 

Are  not  more  deep 

Than  his  who  hears  the  harness  rattle, 

The  horses  neigh,  and  hears  the  deep 

Bells  calling  all  night  —  calling  — 

And  hears  the  steady  footsteps  falling, 

And  hears  —  "  For  liberty!  "  —  the  immortal  cry! 

And  hearing,  turns  with  a  sigh 

And  puts  his  soul  to  sleep  ! 


OLD  KINGS 

I  HEAR  you  laugh  !   I  hear  you  say, 

"  What  is  this  talk  of  kings  ? 
I  face  a  myriad  task.   My  way 

Lies  far  from  old  dead  things." 

Yet  over  the  sea  old  kings  live  on 
Who  break  and  change  the  hour, 

Clothed  and  armored  as  the  dawn, 
Like  young  gods  in  their  power. 

For  over  the  sea  the  past  has  risen ! 

With  ghostly  flags  unfurled, 
The  Days  of  Old  have  burst  from  prison 

And  clash  upon  the  world ! 

O  you,  whose  hopes  and  ardors  burn 

For  the  myriad  task  to-day, 
Your  forward-facing  earth  must  turn  — 

Fall  back  —  make  place  —  give  way  — 

Must  halt  and  greet  the  sheeted  past, 

Must  answer  ancient  kings 
Who  charge  with  a  mighty  thunder-blast, 

With  hail,  with  fire,  with  wings! 

[30] 


OF  SHIPS  AND  THE  SEA 

NEVER  again  would  I  hear  of  ships ! 

The  sea  's  a  snare  of  black  water, 

Where  we  sink,  we  sink  !   Our  bright  flag  drips 

With  brine  of  a  horrible  slaughter. 

Never  again  would  I  think  of  the  sea ! 
"  Whose  wife  went  down,  whose  daughter  ? 
We  lose  but  few  !  "   And  cautiously 
We  turn  away  from  the  slaughter. 

(For  that  was  a  woman  of  Normandy, 
Or  only  Denmark's  daughter, 
Or  a  child  of  Spain  or  of  Italy, 
Drowned  in  the  snarling  water.) 

Nevermore  need  we  speak  of  our  dead, 
Under  the  closed  black  water  .  .  . 
But  we  must  tell  how  the  bolts  are  sped 
And  plead  for  any  one's  daughter, 

Lest  we  sink,  we  sink !   Under  the  sea, 
Dead  beside  Denmark's  daughter, 
Dead  by  dead  children  from  Italy, 
Our  souls  in  the  silent  water ! 

[31  ] 


THE  WORD  WE  REFUSE 

AMERICA  !  Can  you  bend  iron  to  your  need,  plung 
ing  it  into  the  flame  of  your  myriad  forges,  and  when 
it  is  red  as  flame,  glowing  and  most  beautiful,  bear 
ing  it  to  great  anvils  and  smiting  ? 

America  !  Can  you  pierce  mountains,  or  cast  them 
down  upon  the  plains,  or  stalk  across  their  heaving 
shoulders  to  lay  iron  roads  from  ocean  to  ocean, 
where  smoking  engines  of  iron  plunge  and  thunder 
on  their  way?  Can  you  scoop  deep  caverns  in  the 
body  of  the  earth,  where  miners  will  move  with  their 
little  lamps,  glimmering  to  and  fro  after  gold  and 
copper,  coal  and  iron  ?  Can  you  send  iron  shafts 
towering  to  the  clouds,  high  as  the  passage  of  eagles, 
and  can  you  carry  light  on  secret  threads  to  illumine 
that  utmost  iron  height  ?  And  lead  mighty  motion 
in  a  little  wire,  to  spin  and  to  weave  on  gigantic 
groaning  looms  of  iron,  long  webs  to  wind  around 
the  world  ? 

America !  Can  you  pluck  out  the  blind  earth's 
secrets  and  weigh  the  heavy  weight  of  the  sea  in 


THE  WORD  WE  REFUSE 

scales,  and  test  in  crucibles  the  substance  of  the  heav 
ens  ?  Feeling  a  lack,  can  you  learn  a  new  thing  ?  Or, 
looking  down  into  your  manifold  mind,  can  you 
bring  a  new  thing  to  birth,  bending  steel  and  iron  — 
and  the  stars  —  to  your  need?  Can  you  accomplish 
these  marvels,  or  do  you  fail?  Are  your  eyes  clouded  ? 
Is  your  mind  less  than  the  mind  of  another?  But 
above  all,  further  than  all,  the  iron  of  your  mastery 

—  does  it  master  you  ?  Have  you  loves  and  dreams 
beyond  the  splendid  pageant  of  your  visible  roads? 
And  do  you  know  the  weight  and  worth  and  sub 
stance  of  an  idea  ?  Have  you  still  a  soul  ? 

O  speak !  Answer  and  tell  that  soul  why  then  you 
are  silent  before  the  Iron  Monster !  For  are  you  less 
than  he,  that  you  should  worship  him  or  bow  before 
his  towering  height  ?  Or,  towering  also,  and  know 
ing  that  you  tower,  do  you  feel  strange  secret  kinship 
with  him  ?  The  iron  that  encases  and  curbs  him,  does 
it  close  upon  you  ?  Have  you  too  given  a  few  princes 
undue  power?  Are  you  too  loath  —  loath  and  unready 

—  to  free  yourself?  O  what  has  your  iron  demanded 
of  your  soul?  Wealth,  arrogance  of  caste,  submission, 
silence,  the  unbroken  rule  —  do  these  grow  dearer  to 
you  than  speech  and  growth  and  change  and  the  will 
ingness,  when  the  dividing  hour  and  the  demanding 

[33] 


THE  WORD  WE  REFUSE 

moment   come,  to  break  the  law  and   cast  it  back 
within  the  furnace,  and  melt  and  hammer  it  out  anew  ? 

Daily  you  choose,  saying  you  choose  not!  Daily 
you  choose,  and  by  your  silence  you  choose  —  Ger 
many!  The  prayer  of  Belgium  goes  unanswered.  .  .  . 
The  invader  deprives  you  now  of  speech,  for  he  has 
ravaged  the  plains  of  your  soul  and  holds  its  citadels. 
And  his  heel  upon  your  heart  is  the  secret  love  you 
bear  him  —  your  secret  love  for  his  great  girth,  his 
ruthless  tread,  his  thundering  voice,  his  monstrous 
appetite !  Love  of  the  Word-breaker  keeps  you  from 
the  love  that  asks  your  word.  And  you  are  blinded 
to  the  despoiled  fields,  the  land  made  desolate,  and 
blotted  for  you  is  the  voice  of  bondage.  Alas,  Amer 
ica  !  Yet  neither  can  you  thunder  forth  your  iron 
affection !  For  in  your  heart  there  flutters  forever  a 
ragged  bit  of  red  —  flag  of  those  sorrowing  great 
German  exiles  who  came  to  you  so  long  ago,  who 
came  to  you  for  life  and  gave  you  life.  .  .  .  And  in 
your  heart  there  flutters  forever  a  tattered  tricolor  — 
red  and  blue  and  white  !  —  flag  of  the  First  Republic 
—  and  of  yours  ! 

The  soul  withers  in  division.  This  silence  leers, 
saying:  "I  crouch  and  wait  to  choose  the  victor !" 

[34] 


THE  WORD  WE  REFUSE 

O  false  and  evil  choosing!  For  the  soul's  elect, 
though  he  bite  the  dust,  and  be  stoned  and  dragged 
at  chariot-wheels,  and  though  he  die  a  thousand 
deaths,  still  he  lives,  still  he  is  victorious!  But  the 
idol,  the  master,  though  he  triumph  with  all  his 
horsemen  and  riders  and  his  engines  and  his  cannon, 
still,  rejected  by  the  soul,  he  fails ! 

Iron  to  use  you  or  iron  to  use  ? 
For  Belgium  a  'word —  to  have  or  to  lose  ? 
What  weight  has  a  word — the  word  we  refuse? 
A  cross  of  iron  is  heavy  !  Choose  ! 


[35] 


THE  LITTLE  LANDS 

THIS  is  a  black  day  for  all  the  little  lands  and  peoples, 
A  day  of  charred  fields,  of  pillaged  farms,  of  fallen 

steeples. 
Belgium  and  Poland,  alas  !  What  hope   have  they 

now? 
Their  hope  must  all  be  broken  like  a  broken  plough. 

Their  hearts  must  be  like  broken  bowls.  Yet  no  tears 

fall, 
For  the  tears  they  had  for  falling,  by  now  they  have 

shed  them  all. 
And  half  of  them  are  dead  now,  under  the  heaving 

earth, 
And  many  of  them  wander  since  they  were  driven 

forth. 

And  Serbia  and  Armenia !  What  light  have  they 
To  lead  them  out  in  darkness,  weeping  on  their  way  ? 
There  are  no  words  to  tell  their  grief.   All  grief  they 

have. 
Their  life  has  been  a  hard  road  to  a  stony  grave. 

[36] 


THE  LITTLE  LANDS 

'T  is   a  black  day  of  destruction   for   all  the  little 

peoples, 
And  false  it  seems  to  pray  for  them  under  safe  white 

steeples ! 
If  you  have  strength  to  pray  for  them,  stand  at  last 

and  seek, 
Praying  your  own  heart  only,  for  strength  to  speak, 

ay,  to  speak ! 


[37] 


THIS  BOOK 

I  SAW  this  book  in  a  dream. 
I  held  it  within  my  hands; 
The  cover  of  it  was  red ; 
I  waited  my  soul's  commands. 
Red  is  the  color  of  blood, 
The  color  of  brotherhood  ; 
Red  is  the  color  of  flame  — 
I  saw  this  book  in  a  dream. 

I  said,  "  If  it  is  not  true 
I  must  take  my  shears  and  cut 
Every  false  page  out, 
Else  it  would  be  my  shame!  " 
But  I  looked  and  saw  it  was  true 
And  I  knew  what  I  must  do. 
I  saw  it  there  in  my  dream; 
The  cover  of  it  was  red. 
Red  is  the  color  of  blood, 
The  color  of  brotherhood; 
Red  is  the  color  of  flame  — 
I  saw  this  book  in  a  dream. 

THE    END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


UNIVEESITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


IB   1918 


50m-7,'16 


I  worton,  G,F. 
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